


Snowstorms

by ReduxCath



Category: Klaus (2019)
Genre: Cunnilingus, Dirty Talk, F/M, Sex with Clothes On, Sorry I'm a pervert and I wanted to hint at an upcoming mmf i wanted to write, Sweat, bisexual Mogens, stepping on dick
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-26
Updated: 2020-12-26
Packaged: 2021-03-10 21:15:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,829
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28333707
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ReduxCath/pseuds/ReduxCath
Summary: Snowstorms are common in Smeerensburg, and Alva always stays with Mogens, because his house is warm and she hasn't managed to make an enemy of him, at least.
Relationships: Alva/Mogens (Klaus 2019)
Comments: 4
Kudos: 16





	Snowstorms

**Author's Note:**

> Help my bi is showing. Also I usually don't write like, sex with women, or from the woman's perspective, so if there's any way I can improve on my descriptions please don't hesitate to tell me

“Mnnhh.”

“Somethin’ wrong?”

Alva turned her eyes to the sole window in the bedroom. It was one of three in Mogens’ small, two room house, but it was, like all the others, thick with reinforced glass and thermic paste that prevented most of the outside chill from getting in. She observed the swirl of the frost outside, the way that the winds twisted upon themselves and howled.

Snowstorms were trouble for Alva.

Her dream, her _stint_ of trying to teach the devilish children of Smeerensburg had failed miserably within the first year, and she had been at the end of her rope, alone in the teaching house, when Mogens had burst through the door and slapped a fat fish on the barren ‘desk’ in front of the room with a look on his face, as though asking her if she intended to survive or not. So she turned from teaching to fish preparation, and while it was…not what she had wanted to do with her time, she got good at it. Real good at it, to the point that she became an alternative service that people actually sought, because her hand saved up time for more feuds. People paid her for it, and it got her money to eat, so she stayed.

She stayed because she didn’t have anywhere else to go, but she was able to _stay here_ because she had the money to eat.

That was what it always was, right? Money?

….

….The teaching house had turned into an impromptu fishery, and she, in her grit and hatred for her circumstances, had grown accustomed to the smell quickly. The smell of fish meat and sight of fish eyes gave her the edge she needed to be taken seriously in Smeerensburg, and the knives she’d stuck to the globe gave her just a bit more, enough to be respected.

But—

A huff. A breath. In the present moment, Alva turned and saw Mogens scratching his chin, the scruff on it, and in the silver light of the moon he looked almost handsome, like her boyfriend back in the National Academy for Education, who had loved and fucked and cherished her right up until the moment that she had excitedly told him that she wanted to teach in Smeerensburg, of all places.

(It had been a good play for her back then, because she knew he loved someone else and the chance to break amicably would serve them both well. He had wanted a goodbye kiss. She gave him a handshake, and he’d been so impressed with her—but that had been the end)

Alva turned to her side, careful not to let any cold air under the covers, and looked at Mogens, who turned to her and raised an eyebrow. “You want more?” He asked her with a tone in his voice that set her loins on fire and made her, despite her repeated orgasms from a few moments prior, wet again. Just a little bit.

The teaching house was good for its current purpose, but a problem with it was that it was cold. Too cold, during snowstorms. Back when she’d been planning on teaching, she had puzzled and fretted over how best to fix the various heat leaks in the house’s construction, but without children, her attention turned to herself. And while she would love nothing more than to shell out the good money for repair materials, plug up the holes, and get it fucking over with, saving a building in uncaring Smeerensburg was not what her savings were for.

Not at all.

So, during snowstorms, she had to haul herself to Mogens house, because he was the only person in Smeerensburg who would take her, and because, as someone who had a couple decades in this god-forsaken place, _his_ house was properly insulated, and livable during a dip in temperature (the already low, low temperature).

Mogens was…a very specific kind of person, in that he was hard to read.

When he first met her, he’d laughed at her honest desire to teach, offered to ferry her back. During the year where she had had her infamous Sisyphean struggle against the culture of Smeerensburg and its people, he had been around, sometimes mocking her, sometimes offering advice, sometimes chiding her and telling her that she was just a privileged little bitch who thought she could do what so many others had not. He was a drunk, without much manners, and not at all good looking, but when he stopped leering and mocking the world and its people he could be so dependable. And it had been him, after all was said and done, who gave her a fish and introduced her to some local fishermen who had wanted to offload work onto her.

A weird, inconsistent mix of a man.

In the year that she’d been here, Smeerensburg had pushed her around, shook her up and down, and nipped at her as the cold winds of winter nip at exposed skin, slowly breaking her down and forcing her to become harder and more direct. A slow process. But an important one. Because being alone in the house with a man that had nothing but root tea (initially) for her had left her with no choice than to get to know him.

Every snowstorm had been a promise of long, long conversations with the boatman.

At first, they had touched upon normal town gossip, and she had thought that Mogens had only been a bitter old man at his core. Even when she felt like shit and agreed with everything he said. Even when _she_ complained at him and he called her a moron for hoping any better. She had thought that Mogens would be a simple friend to shoot the breeze with, to talk bad about people behind their backs. Before Smeerensburg, Alva had not been the kind of woman to do such things, because such things were mean-spirited and unkind, but in such a place as this, with no money to her name (dreams were expensive things, even with a diploma like hers), such a method of stress relief was necessary.

But Mogens was dirty, through and through.

“Found any men who tickle your fancy, miss Alva?” He had offered up once, near the end of the third month, when a lull in the conversation had left them both staring at their shitty teas. “I know some good ones, I could give you personal recommendations.” He winked.

“I would say that’s none of your concern.” She sneered at him, met his wily grin. And then he wiggled his eyebrows like a pervert, said something about secret flings being very hot, and she had laughed because his sense of humor had started to ruin hers. “No, no, no one, really. Besides, most of the men who are of age here are married.”

“And….” He looked around playfully, then splayed his hands. “…what?”

“ _Mogens!!”_ She’d slapped his arm.

Outside of their meetings during snowstorms, he’d sometimes say hello. Sometimes talk to her for a bit. And it was here that he’d spread his seeds, start smiling at her in a bit of a different way. Give her a look sometimes that left her stupefied because it made her skin feel warm beneath her clothes. Sometimes he’d call her _doll_ or _baby_ , but add a bit of tone into the words and leave her hot-faced, especially if it was around some of her fish providers. Whenever they’d wink at her and flirt with her (showing that Mogens really had pegged the people of Smeerensburg correctly, even though they all wore rings), he’d laugh along with them, tease her, but always with the understanding that she was already taken, even though she wasn’t and they hadn’t done anything (yet).

It was useful, having a man in the conversation that could keep some heat off her while allowing her to bite back, allow her to keep some womanly dignity without keeping her from chances to prove she wasn’t weak. And she was grateful for it, even though some of the men who stroked fishes at her were, honestly, much more handsome than Mogens (their wives were much more ferocious than Mogens too).

Slowly but surely, over a month with only a couple snowstorms, he teased her, smiled at her, until one day during a snowstorm, she gave him a solid look, and asked him what he wanted.

“See, here's my thinkin'. Yer a pretty woman. And I’m one _hell_ of a handsome man.” He snickered, aware (or perhaps he really did believe himself). “I thought we could have some fun.”

“Well, thank you, really…”

But she hadn’t finished her sentence.

“I get you, miss Alva, I do. You don’t want to ruffle any feathers. You _could_ , but maybe it’s smarter for you not to.” Her only friends in this town were men, after all. With everything that had happened, with all the fuck-ups she’d stumbled into, the women of Smeerensburg had a negative view of her. What if she stole her husbands away? Those married to the fishermen didn’t speak to her, but the way they looked at her in the markets made their feelings clear. “So I was thinking that, if yer not the type to not need a bit of fun, well…” And Mogens had shrugged, an open gesture with an easy smile to go along with it.

Alva had shaken her head, rolled her eyes. “Oh, please!” And she’d listed off all the reasons it would be a stupid idea, and Mogens had laughed along and leaned onto the wall and listened to her, agreeing here, disagreeing there—until he lifted her head gently with his fat, square fingers and brought his face a little closer. “If you really don’t want to, I won’t pressure ya, miss Alva. But if you’ll humor me, just a kiss will do.”

His voice had gone so low, and they were alone, and the tea inside her stomach was nice and warm, just like his fingers.

And he was her friend, despite it all, despite how he was.

So she smirked, scoffed, and told him _one_ kiss. “Just one, alright?”

It would make for a good story, at least.

For the first couple seconds, it was chaste, and they both had their eyes open. When Mogens cocked an eyebrow, she closed her eyes and decided to give him just a bit more to shut him up. Slowly, slowly grabbing the back of his large neck, she brough him close, and Alva giggled when she felt Mogens’ tongue poking at her lips, clearly wanting to take it up a notch but not wanting to overstep his ground.

Sure. It was nice and warm, after all.

But that had been a mistake, maybe. Because when Alva started to kiss with tongue, Mogens growled low from somewhere, and then his tongue slowly invaded her mouth, sending a pleasurable chill up her spine and— _mmmn._

No one was watching. It was fine.

It was fine when Mogens pushed into her a bit and they clashed teeth, when she heard him gasp for air and curse so deliciously. It was fine when he stroked her back, when his large hands cupped her ass and squeezed just a little. It was fine because she felt his hardness in front of her, and he’d been right, it had been _such_ a long time, oh God it’d been so long—

But it was _Mogens_.

When Alva regained herself, she was on the cool, dead stove, and Mogens was planting kisses down her front, pressing his thumb to the base of her back. He looked up, saw her face, and stopped. “What?”

“…I—”

“You want me to stop?”

His chin was right above, on top of her sex, and she could feel that he’d grabbed her skirt and was in the process of lifting it up. His face was flushed—flushed because of _her_ —and Alva bit her lip, because he was so direct and didn’t leave her any room to maneuver outside her own mind.

It _had_ been one kiss, after all. That’s what she’d promised him.

But still, Alva found herself nodding, opening her legs farther, and getting ready to—

“Thought I was only getting a kiss, miss Alva.”

She pursed her lips. “Don’t push it.”

“Don’t _push_ it?” He purred, pushing down on her with his chin and making her wet, before dragging his head down and pushing himself under her skirt. “You tell me how much I can push, alright?” His breath was _hot_ , and he pushed her panties out of the way with his nose and with his teeth (holy _shit)_ before pushing his tongue around her pussy, licking at the flesh, and _smiling_ into her sex.

Alva had moaned so _loudly_.

Her feet curled inside her shoes, and her legs had immediately locked, drawing a sound of discomfort from Mogens. “M-Move it away!”

“Want me to rip these apart?” He asked, genuine, lips moving on top of her flesh.

“What?! No!!” She protested.

“Then deal.” And he kept going, teasing her with his limited access. Mogens kissed and licked all around, at her thighs, at her outer lips, digging past the fabric to get at her hood and press at the folds with his lips, kneading them slowly, slowly, until he seemed to get tired of that, and stuck his tongue inside. With the tip of his tongue playing with her clit, he spread his hot saliva all around, moaning and chuckling at Alva’s mewls, at the way she knocked his hat off and _dug_ at his hair, until—

Until she heard him gasp after a few seconds. “Shit…!”

Alva fought through the haze of her afterglow and looked down, concerned, gasping. Mogens looked up at her from where he was, the whole lower area of his face drenched in her juices, and when he smiled and licked his chops like a dog, she hid her face. “Fuck me.”

“ _Oh?”_ He rose up, and put his hand on the inside of her thigh, no further. His tongue got up to her ear, and licking only once, he smiled into her and whispered. “I thought you were just going to leave me hanging. How considerate of you.”

“No, that’s not what I—” And Mogens withdrew as Alva lowered her hands, blushing. “I just—I can’t believe I just did that with you.”

For a moment, he looked genuinely offended. Then, with a serious expression, he kept looking at her. “But did you _like_ it?”

“W-well, yes, but—”

“But _what_?” He sneered a little at her. “Don’t want people to know you’re fucking the boatman?” When she didn’t answer, he sighed, and flicked her forehead. “They _don’t care._ No one in this town cares about anyone except the people they hate.”

“….” She took a breath. Fixed her hair. “That was horrible of me. I’m sorry.”

“You bet your ass it was.” He nodded, and then looked down at her breasts. “…I’m still hard though.”

“Can’t you, can’t you just let it—” Alva didn’t know too much about male anatomy, despite her infrequent experience with it. She struggled to find the words she wanted to use for the stick of meat that was surely throbbing below her. “ _calm down?_ ” Hopefully this one was fine.”

Mogens looked at her with a mixture of annoyance and understanding. “Well, I _could_ , if you’re really not into it anymore. But it’d be a damper.” Alva, in any other circumstance, would’ve thanked Mogens, gotten off the cool stove. But her snatch was still wet and warm, and she’d offended Mogens earlier, and with his chin wet he didn’t look as ugly as before. Maybe because after all that, he still treated her like he’d treat anyone else.

An idea seemed to pop into his head, and he smirked before placing another kiss on her cheek—stealing it, making her blush a little harder. “You mind if I take care of it right now?” He smiled at her, resting on her breasts, drawing circles on the back of her hand with his finger. “It’s not like we haven’t crossed that line.”

She looked down, making him stand up straight, and saw the throbbing cock rubbing against the handle of the stove. “Wait—” She saw herself, legs open, messy, sweaty. “Do you mean—”

“With my hand.”

“Oh.”

He chuckled, kissed her neck and lowered one of his hands down. “We can do that when we’re _both_ up for it.”

Alva started to hear a wet, slick sound, and grabbed onto Mogens’s wide shoulder. “Who says this will happen again?”

“Well, seeing as I’m open for it, so long as you treat me _right_ ,” He said honestly, giving her a look that said _you know you have a stick up your ass_. “it would be up to _you_.”

“….” Alva sighed. “I’ll think about it.”

“Perfect!” Mogens smiled, bucked his hips. He moved his free hand away from hers and up her skirt, and after looking at her for a moment to confirm, began to toy with her, saying all sorts of dirty things about the way she could cut a good snapper with that knife of her. Yeah, cuz she liked to use that knife, huh? Cuz she was a good, tough woman. Alva had never heard such strange dirty talk in her life, but it seemed to be getting Mogens nearer to completion, and if she just moaned along and stopped focusing on his words, she had to admit that his fingers could do the job fairly well.

After they finished, with the smell of their fornication hanging in the air, Mogens licked his hand, winking at her. “Thank you kindly, miss Alva.”

And from then on, snowstorms began to be trouble for her.

Because she and Mogens now knew each other biblically, and he didn’t have to be as proper with her anymore.

Oh, he was still a gentleman with her. Still the same rude, snarky bastard as before who loved to gossip and complain about life and about the boat and about the idiots in the village. But he touched her more, smiled more openly. He would kiss her hand, wink at her, stir his tea while gazing at her and making the spoon dance with his fingers. He would grab her from behind when she made tea, kiss her neck, tell her that he wanted them to be stuck in the house more often because he liked being able to grab such a pretty thing. And when she showed him her desire, he would growl and touch her and rub up against her— _oh, his hands on her sides._

He didn’t touch her like that outside of his house.

Not when he helped her trade. Not even after all the fishermen left and they were alone. And she sometimes tried to seduce him back in her fishery, but he would just chuckle at her, brush her cheek, and tell her to calm her tits. During the next blizzard, she’d confront him about it, wagging her spoon at him, and he’d laugh at her and tell her that he loved it when she got angry with him like that. “You’re just so cute.” He told her, voice full of mirth.

“I’m not.” She said, sour, and didn’t look at him until he kneeled down in front of her and kissed her legs, moving up, up, up, until he was once again pushing her dress up and nipping at her underwear.

That was when Alva felt herself getting an idea.

Angling her foot, the woman stepped right on Mogens’s erection, clothed behind his fisherman’s slacks. He stopped for a moment, but when Alva tilted her toes forward and pressed just a little, she heard a growl. It was a new noise for Mogenss, who then proceeded to pull down her underwear and dig his nose deep into her leaking folds. “Harder.”

“Is this alright?” She tried to do as he said.

“Fuck—” He gasped against her, licked, sucked. “You’re not selling it enough. Be meaner.”

“That’s, um…” Alva blushed. Her foot withdrew, until Mogens grabbed her ankle and gently (but firmly) put it back. “I…I’ve never done this before. I just—”

“If you’re gonna do something, _commit_.” He commanded, rough, and proceeded to dine on her vagina, licking and lapping like a dog, _deep_ inside, swirling his tongue in and out. Alva couldn’t help the way she arched her feet and back, and Mogens, who had been holding her foot on his dick, moaned right into her when she dug her soles into his pants. “You big-city types, always so repressed, you do kinky shit like this.” To keep her from moving, Mogens grabbed her thighs and held her in place, leaving Alva with no other recourse than to cover her face, moan into her palms, and shake with pleasure.

Mogens didn’t cum from her shoe. That would’ve been much too embarrassing for her.

Instead, after her second orgasm from his tongue, he let his fat cock flop out and rubbed it against her trembling snatch, whispering obscenities into her ear as he threatened to take her right then and there on his good chair, like the prim princess she was, and did she like how big he was? Did she like how hot it was?

For all his dirty talk, Mogens slid in slow, and made sure to inch his way in bit by bit, until Alva felt her wetness meet his hair and the fabric of his pants. The boatman grinned down at her, licking his chops. “Good girl.”

Mogens, when riled up, tended to use his tongue like the engine of a boat at high speeds. Wild, unpredictable, and toe-curlingly delightful.

“Move!! Mogens, I swear to God—”

“Now now, patience, miss Alva.”

But he used his dick like a piston at low intensity instead. Slow, full entrances and exits, no matter how much Alva squealed and fought against him for him to hurry the hell up and move faster. He bit his lip, shut one eye, and looked at her, enjoying her face and her annoyance. He _relished_ how she gasped and moaned and quivered around him, begged for him. “Am I getting a good grade, teacher?”

She smacked him. “That was awful.”

Mogens frowned, rubbed his arm. “Sorry.”

But he was right back to going balls deep, digging around a little, and withdrawing all slow-like again. It drove Alva mad.

This went on, and on, and on, with Alva sweating against him, with Mogens lapping up her sweat at the crook of her neck, all while the lonely winter winds howled outside, speaking of a cold that was so separate and foreign from the heat that they were building here, fletching against each other. Until, of course, Mogens looked up from her neck and saw that the storm had died down. Then, the boatman placed Alva’s legs on top of his shoulders, kissed her deep, and smiled. “You want me to go faster?”

Alva couldn’t even speak at this point.

Not with Mogens pounding away, making the floor boards creak too loudly for her comfort. At one point, she felt something in the thick chair crack, but Mogens kept digging into her with his cock, moving in and out. “Come on, baby girl, make me shoot! Come on!”

“N-Not inside, please—”

“ _Obviously_.” He said, assuaging her sudden fears, licking her sweaty neck. “I’m not a mor— _onnnnnn….!!”_ He shook against her, moving his hips, but she didn’t feel him inside? Alva held Mogens as the large man gasped against her, shuddering a couple of times before sitting down in front of her.

“Where did you—” Alva, after recovering enough herself, leaned forward. Mogens sat in front of her, dazed, happy as a cat in the sun with his fat dick out, leaking the final drops of its load onto his pants. In front of her, all over the foot of the chair was the real body of his orgasm. “Do…Do you need help cleaning that up?”

Mogens chuckled as he breathed hard, tapped his lips and sent her a kiss. “If you’re gonna clean with your tongue, sure! Just sit on over here.” He tapped his face.

Alva would’ve excused herself right then and there if she hadn’t been sure that a sudden effort to stand would send her falling right back into the chair. Or worse (?), right into Mogens, who knew exactly how to touch her now, and who might just make it impossible to leave until morning.

Instead, Alva just sat back, breathed, let Mogens clean his own mess, and ignored the way that her panties were by the wayside.

They had fun like that. A lot.

A whole lot.

Fun on the chair. Fun on the stove. Fun against the windows’ chilled crystal glass. Fun, eventually, in Mogens’s proper bed, with a real cushion underneath her. Fun where she could relax and let him eat her out while she hugged a real pillow instead of her own hand. Fun where they could actually lay down together. Fun that led to them panting against each other, naked and sweaty, indistinguishable from a normal couple.

…And with sex on a bed came the afterglow talks.

Post-sex conversations are almost always emotionally revealing in some way. Alva knew it, and Mogens, despite his efforts to keep appearing like a snide asshole, knew it too. The first time Alva went to his bed, he looked at her, and asked in his serious tone. “Do you really wanna do it there?”

“Yes.” She had said, the answer coming out easier than she’d expected.

And so they talked, after finishing, after Mogens cleaned a bit of spunk off her face with his tongue and called her pretty (not pretty good. Pretty.) They talked about where they came from. Where they’d been. Where they thought, in their wildest dreams, that they’d be going. All with the snow and the stars of Smeerensburg peeking at them from the sole window in his room. Mogens was a man of his boat, and loved the lifestyle of Smeerensburg. Said that the town offered him a special type of solitude and entertainment that no other place in the world could provide. Alva was, of course, dead-set on leaving, and Mogens told her he was fine with it. “If ya weren’t leavin’, I’d have to think about marrying yous.”

“Oh, stop.” She rolled her eyes, smirking.

“Yer one of my regulars, really. In fact, I think you’re at the top of my list right now.” He said, like that wasn’t the biggest thing she’d ever heard, coming from him. “It’s only natural.”

Only natural….?

…

Alva, in the present moment, turned to Mogens, shook her head into his chest. “It’s nothing. Just thinking.”

“Hmmmm.”

She twirled her finger around his nipple, playing with the hairs, and thought back to the jar of coins hidden inside of the fish with the big sharp yellow teeth. Just a bit more, and she would actually, genuinely be out of here.

Just a bit more.

“Hey, you saw that postman, right? That new fella, came in from who knows where?” Mogens mused, quiet. Lately he’d been quieter with her, and considering the sharpness of his eye, Alva guessed something in her demeanor must’ve tipped him off. He knew it too.

He knew it was almost over.

With a breath, Alva resolved not to think about the money, the funds for her meticulously studied restart of her own life. She didn’t think about the coming end to the late-night talks, to the cutting of the fish, to the touches and the root tea and the idea that one day, she would not feel his large hands in her hair any more. She didn’t think about it at all, and just got on top of him, grinding her sex against his, both spent, but able to feel how good the contact was.

“Yeah. I remember him.” They’d both been there when she’d met Jesper Johansen, with his orange hair and his gangly frame and his stupid nose. “Didn’t appreciate you making fun.” She cocked an eyebrow at him, refereeing the comment about love at first sight. Alva wasn’t sure she could love anyone anymore.

Mogens smirked, kissed her, put his hands on her ass and kneaded the cheeks for a while, before moving his palms up her back and relaxing. “Well, I thought he was cute.”

“Pervert.” She chuckled along with him, rested her head against his chest. Smelled his smell and felt his stubble on the top of her head as he breathed, loud and warm, like an ox.

As she closed her eyes, the image of her saved up funds appeared in her head once more, among those yellow teeth.

Alva frowned, squeezed her eyes harder, and it was gone. Just like this storm would be in the morning.

**Author's Note:**

> Listen, I hold Jesper/Alva up like a blessed child, but Mogens is hot as heck and one day I'm gonna have the courage to write Mogens/Jesper/Alva like we deserve


End file.
